And We're Still Counting

Notice the dip downward at the end? All that means is that I'm making some progress in my editing :)

The Delacey Project: A short story

This story is unedited. I'm taking it to critique on Tuesday. Any comments appreciated.
Meghan <><

The Delacey Project

            Liftoff in t minus ten minutes, and counting.

            I grit my teeth as the computer voice over the loudspeaker counts down the minutes to the end of my life.

            “Don’t worry,” a voice to my left tells me. “They’ve done this hundreds of times.”

            I don’t know this man. It’s obvious he has no idea who I am either. I ignore his attempts to put me at ease and instead ask the shuttle attendant for some water.

            “No food or drink for twenty-four hours prior to launch,” he intones. He sounds like those old school robotic voices from back before Integrated Human Speech was invented for computers. I imagine myself in a classic sixties sci-fi movie where everybody except two minor characters is either blown up or eaten by rabid aliens. The leading roles become beloved martyrs, but it’s the survivors who get to go home and live out their lives in peace.

            Liftoff in t minus eight minutes, and counting.

            My hands clench. Do they have to keep reminding me?

            The man to my left speaks up again. “This shuttle has been tested hundreds of times. It wouldn’t have passed inspection if the DSAS weren’t one-hundred percent positive it could hold up under even the worst of conditions.”

            None of this is new to me. All relevant information is in the packet they gave me when I was informed by com-link that I was selected for Project Delacey. In general, only two types of people are selected; those who pay the big bucks and those who were drawn from the lottery. Both groups of people are given the same information packet. Shows how much they really care about people like the man spewing miscellaneous factoids next to me, who probably spent billions of dollars for “the opportunity of a lifetime”.

            He is still talking, reciting the information we’ve both received. We’re perfectly safe. In a few weeks we’ll arrive at our destination and it will all be worth it, even the day without food or water. We’ll be the leaders of a whole new world, the pioneers of the future.

            I don’t tell him I ate a salad for dinner last night and a muffin and orange juice for breakfast this morning.

            Liftoff in t minus seven minutes, and counting.

            It isn’t the flight that makes me nervous, despite the man’s belief. I’ve flown on airplanes dozens of times, and even once a space shuttle that was going to the moon for a field trip in high school. I still remember the excitement I had felt, and the awe when we’d left Earth’s atmosphere for the day. It had been one of the best trips of my life.

            Another girl is strapped in across from me. Her eyes are bloodshot and she is sniffing. The man next to me finally tires of my silence and switches his attention to her, repeating the same things he told me. Other passengers give him annoyed stares.

            Now that he is no longer speaking to me, I glance at him. He is wearing a fancy business suit—impractical for this kind of trip—and has a leather briefcase in the carry-lock by his feet. I wonder at his reasons for coming, but decide they’re probably the same as all the other high-class citizens who are paying for a new start.

            I guess the crying girl is one of the randomly-selected participants. They’ve been drawing names out of a lottery for this project for years, ever since Project Delacey began. They aren’t forced to go—no one is ever forced—but the decision is probably an easy one to make. With a choice between being taxed until you have nothing left and earning enough money for your family to live on comfortably for the rest of their lives, who wouldn’t choose to go?

            “Please be sure you are buckled securely and comfortably into your seats.” Another shuttle attendant walks down the aisle in front of us, assisting the people who haven’t already followed all the steps in the safety manual and repeating the same instructions over and over. Her face and voice are more animated than the man’s, but her words come out like a computer program. “Press the green indicator button next to your chair once you are ready. The DSAS-approved secure containment system will engage once everyone has indicated that they are prepared. Please be sure you are bucked securely and comfortably into your seats. Press the green indicator…”

            The man next to me attempts to call her over, but as soon as she realizes he doesn’t need help, she continues down the length of the shuttle, mechanically repeating directions. The other shuttle attendant approaches us with the same bored expression as before. I wonder if he, too, was chosen as a random participant.

            “You may not know this,” the man next to me says in a confidential tone, though his voice is loud enough for the entire shuttle to hear what he is saying. “I am a very important man. I have dedicated much of my life to making sure this project succeeds. Do you suppose there are any amenities for one such as myself? A small glass of wine, or a snack?”

            Liftoff in t minus five minutes, and counting.

            The shuttle attendant blinks at the man. “No food or drink for twenty-four hours prior to launch,” he says, as if this is the only thing he is programmed to say.

            “Yes, yes,” the man says, waving his hand about in a grandeur manner. “But suppose I slipped you a little something under the table. Perhaps an exception?”

            “No food or drink for twenty-four hours prior to launch, no exceptions,” the shuttle attendant says, and steps away.

            The man to my left is angry. I can feel it radiating off of him in waves. Trying not to catch his attention, I push the green button on my right armrest. It’s next to the blue one that will put me to sleep once we’ve launched. It doesn’t matter. He begins speaking to me again anyway.

            “It’s quite a genius program, really,” he says conversationally, as though he hadn’t been angry with the shuttle attendant moments before. “Headed by a team of experts in all fields—psychology and sustainability and aeronautics, of course, but also engineering and physics and education. Dan Delacey’s an associate of mine, you see. Went to school together, college buddies and all that. He asked for me personally. Says he couldn’t recommend a better doctor to help settle the colonials. I got the com-link a few weeks ago, said he could get me on the next launch. And I thought, why the hell not? My wife’s divorced me, my kids moved in with her, and all my friends are here! Seemed a good time to pick up and relocate.”

            While he talks, the IHS voice on the loudspeaker continues to count down. T minus four minutes. T minus three minutes. T minus two minutes.

            “I suppose you don’t feel quite the same though, do you?” he asks me. It’s the first direct question he’s asked me and I feel obligated to give some kind of response. I shake my head slightly, but this only encourages him. “You have a life you’re leaving, I’m sure. It’s difficult to leave family and friends for research. I can’t imagine how you feel, but it probably isn’t positive toward the Project. You were a student? They seem to be selecting a lot of those, though I’m not sure why. Probably a specific sample to do a statistical analysis on.”

            I know the answer. This man thinks we are traveling to Project Delacey for research purposes, but they haven’t been doing research in over a year. Now they are trying to colonize, to populate a planet. In the event of an Earthly disaster, humans will continue to exist. I remember suddenly a story we were read in school about a man named Noah. His project manager ordered him to build a shuttle large enough to hold two of every species of animal, because he was the most trustworthy of employees. So Noah did, and he launched his shuttle called Ark, carrying with him all of the animals that would fit to Jupiter. It isn’t a true story, because Jupiter can’t be colonized, but I can’t help but feel like the animals on Noah’s shuttle. Sent to a new planet to carry on the species.

            But I don’t say any of this as he continues to happily blather on about the goodness of research, and how my sacrifice will benefit billions.

            Liftoff in t minus one minute, and counting.

            A low hum vibrates through our buckles. The containment system is engaging. I remember this from my previous trip in a shuttle. It’s meant to prevent our straps from coming undone no matter what. I can’t help but feel like it’s sealing my fate.

            “This is it!” the man says excitedly, suddenly changing his demeanor to that of a youthful boy. He sees some people getting ready to push the blue buttons on their armrests. “I can’t believe anyone would want to sleep through this. An incredible experience! I’ve never been on a shuttle before!”

            Liftoff in t minus ten seconds. Nine. Eight. Seven.

            “I’m sorry,” he say suddenly. “I never actually got your name. My name is Ray.”

            Five. Four. Three. Two. One. Prepare for launch.

            I glance at him as the ever-present rumble suddenly roared. “Lena Delacey,” I say, barely loud enough to be heard over the engine. The man’s eyes go as wide as his mouth.

I hit the blue button.

Agrarian Scarf (Revised)

Warm as the cockles,
of a
happy heart,
an amassing propagation
of vees.
Alone,
trivial. Tiny.
Together, a whole.

A harvest of silk,
and sheep
and satisfaction,
until unwittingly,
a single wild loop
blunders into a snare.

An effortful cultivation
of a league of vees.
With one unbound end,
it is unfinished, untamed.
With one mistake,
one misstep,
unfinished becomes
undone. Upended.
Unraveled.

Like a scarf is built
stitch by stitch.
A life is built
day by day.
As a scarf
may be unraveled,
so a life
may be uprooted.

And yet,
a tangle of yarn,
given tools and nurture,
may become again
a scarf,
or a hat,
or a sweater.
Renewed, refreshed,
remade.
Beginning with a vee,
and then two,
and then three.

I Ate Pie

I like to think I'm organized, at least insofar as my writing is concerned. I have a notebook containing lists of things to edit or ideas for future novels, file folders with maps and miscellaneous scraps of paper, and miscellaneous scraps of paper/sticky note pads lying about everywhere in case I ever have an idea when I don't have access to my notebook. Most notably by my bed, because my brain thinks it's hilarious to give me the best ideas right before I'm about to sleep. Of course, this means I have to turn my light on, write something quickly so I don't wake up too much, then turn it off and try to get back to that almost-sleep state.
Now, normally this isn't too much of a problem. If I have a good idea, then just a few key words will trigger the memory in my mind the next morning and I can develop it fully while I have the cognitive resources to do so. However, there are occasions when I won't have any clue what my brilliant idea was, and I have to scrap the idea.
Today, I came across one such scrap of paper. I have no idea what it means, nor what my plan was when I wrote it. There is no context around it, nothing to give me a clue what my half-sleeping mind was thinking of. Possibly a dream? I have no clue. The paper read:

"I ate pie," he said, as if that explained everything.

Of course, it explains absolutely nothing. It doesn't even make sense when I pair it with all of my other ideas about future books or edits to make to my book. In this case, my idea came to me as a phrase I could put in my story (a frequent occurrence, but usually I know where to put them the next day). But pie has never entered into my story, nor is there a character who says irrelevant things.

Sometimes, I amaze even myself with my oddities.